


mit dir stehen die Sekunden

by moon_waves



Category: Rammstein
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pining, Reise Reise Era, Self-Doubt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:13:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23792917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moon_waves/pseuds/moon_waves
Summary: Renting a house in Spain in winter to record their new album had looked like a good idea - until the boiler broke, forcing them to say goodbye to a decent heating system as well as hot showers, and hello to shared beds.
Relationships: Richard Kruspe/Till Lindemann
Comments: 14
Kudos: 64





	mit dir stehen die Sekunden

**Author's Note:**

> Being on lockdown is starting to really wear down on me so this happened.

“Give me your hands.”

“It’s fine.”

“Give me your hands.”

“It’s _fine_.”

Till huffed a little in annoyance, his breath forming a small white cloud in the morning air.

“I can see you’re cold. Give me your hands,” he said once again, this time letting his irritation show a little in his tone.

Richard grumbled under his breath but finally offered his hands to Till, who quickly took them between his, frowning a little as he felt the coldness seep through his gloves and reach his skin. The temperature of late November mornings had gotten quite unforgiving, no matter how sunny it might get in the afternoons, and it would do no good for their lead guitarist to lose the use of his fingers out of some misplaced stubbornness.

“Why didn’t you take your gloves?” he asked curiously, trying to warm Richard’s hands by rubbing them together, the steam of their coffee mugs rising up to them.

The guitarist shrugged, not meeting his eyes but rather staring at their hands intertwined with an undecipherable expression on his face.

“It’s Spain,” Richard finally said after a time.

Till blinked.

“It’s _winter_ ,” he pointed out, a bit disconcerted.

Richard shrugged again.

“I just thought it would be warmer, that’s all,” he mumbled before slightly turning away, looking at the horizon and the pink hues of the sky.

Till hummed, hesitating for a brief instant before deciding against saying anything, instead focusing his attention on warming the hands in his care. It didn’t take long for his thoughts to start drifting away, his mind unable to focus on something other than the guitarist sitting next to him. He hadn’t expected to find Richard sitting on the low wall at the end of the terrace, back turned on the swimming pool and the house they were renting, sipping his coffee outside on a chilly morning, but joining him had been instinctive. There would still be time for breakfast later, but having a cup of coffee outside with the assurance they were unlikely to be disturbed by one of their bandmates… it had been more than appealing.

He missed spending time alone with Richard – had thought it would be easier without an ocean between them, but so far he had been sadly disappointed.

Although… he would be lying if sharing a moment together had been his only objective. The atmosphere was awkward now that they were recording, Richard, Paul and Schneider walking on eggshells around one another, while things were still strained between Richard and Flake as well. Only Ollie seemed to have gotten over what had happened while they were working on previous album, and Till wasn’t sure if it was because the young bassist tried to be as zen as possible, or if he considered that acting like everything was normal would make it _real_.

Richard had tried to behave as if nothing had changed, in the first days, being as talkative as usual, if awkwardly polite around Paul and Schneider, but had soon turned to be quiet, and Till wasn’t quite sure what to make of it. He had some hypothesis on the topic, most of them boiling down to the fact that Richard would try to keep his mouth shut to maintain the fragile equilibrium while they were recording, but even if it was the case, he wasn’t sure what to do with that.

Was it worth the price of Richard’s silence?

(Of his avoiding the rest of the band when he thought he could get away without it being noted upon?)

(Till could only look at him from afar and get away with it for so long, after all. Lingering stares would get picked on, at some point.)

And Richard looked _good_ , in the pale morning light, his profile sharply defined against the landscape surrounding the house – trees and hills and the ocean below. Till smashed down the warmth that had pooled at the bottom of his stomach at the sight. It was a longtime companion by now, but there were still moments where he would be taken by surprise – where he would have to hide his feelings before Richard turned around and looked at him.

Like now, a frown still present on his face, hands limp between his, fingers stirring against his gloves.

“Your coffee is going to get cold,” he said quietly, looking at him with an expression Till couldn’t decipher.

Richard’s eyes were the color of the sea, dark blue hiding mysteries in its depths, and he had to look away for a moment, before he did something he would regret.

“Yours, too,” Till said in return, making no move to release Richard’s hands.

They both looked at the coffee mugs, steam long gone by now, still half-full. Richard grimaced a little at the sight before withdrawing his hands from Till’s hold and reaching for his mug. His grimace intensified as he took a tentative sip and Till felt his shoulders sag a little.

“Yours might still be lukewarm,” Richard said before rising from the wall, a preoccupied expression on his face.

Till hummed and didn’t say anything, before taking his mug and emptying it in a quick move. He was due for another cup of coffee – a _hot_ one, this time. He begrudgingly accompanied Richard as he walked back to the house, slightly curled on himself.

The temperature wasn’t much warmer when they stepped inside and Till felt himself frown as they made their way to the kitchen, surprised by the lack of noise coming from the radiators. The guys were all up, wearing either a bathrobe or a supplementary sweatshirt over their clothes, unhappy frowns on their faces, all except for Ollie harboring various bad cases of bed hair. Schneider was on the phone, computer open in front of him, playing with a pen while waiting for his interlocutor on the other side of the line.

“The boiler broke down,” he informed them as they walked into the kitchen. “I’m trying to set up an appointment but – _yes, hello?_ ”

His German accent was heavy as he directed all his attention to the phone call, and Till spotted Richard hovering awkwardly next to him before sitting down, obviously straining to follow the conversation. Ollie pushed the coffee pot towards him as he settled down, eyes fixed on the drummer.

“No hot shower and no heating in the bedrooms until someone intervene,” he informed them quietly.

Till grimaced.

“So much for taking a swim then,” he mumbled before reaching for the closest plate of food. “Did you go this morning?”

Ollie nodded and then grimaced.

“That’s how I found out about the hot water,” he said quietly before quietening as the tone of the discussion seemed to heat up.

 _So much for their early swimming sessions_ , Till thought bitterly before turning his attention back onto Schneider. He was fuming a little, in the way he always did when something _wrong_ was happening before breakfast, in the way that always meant troubles if someone decided to get in the way.

No one said a word until he finished the call, put the phone on the table and then sighed loudly.

“They can’t send anyone before two days,” he said in a calm voice before reaching for his coffee mug. “Apparently there is an emergency they have to take care of at the hospital today, and tomorrow is a holiday, so…”

He shrugged and started attacking his breakfast.

Paul sighed, a mournful expression on his face.

“Well, I guess it will be just like the good old days,” he grumbled a little before playing with the remnants of toast spread in his plate. “Flake, I’m sleeping with you until it’s fixed.”

“Do I even have a say in that?” Flake said in return before grabbing the biggest piece of toast still untouched on Paul’s plate, indifferent to his yell of protestation. “You can’t stay on the mezzanine, Till. You might catch a cold, especially if the temperature drops.”

Everybody looked at him, nodding.

Till shrugged, not particularly bothered by the change in sleeping arrangements.

“I guess not,” he finally said when it was clear they were waiting for an answer – for _the_ answer. “Who am I rooming with, then?”

There was a moment of silence and Schneider put his fork back on his plate, looking at Richard with a attentive expression on his face.

“Richard?”

“Mmh?”

The guitarist looked at him, stopped mid-gesture with coffee mug standing mid-air, cheeks still pink from their outing on the terrace.

“You’re not offering,” Schneider pointed out slowly, voice expressionless.

“I’m giving people an opportunity to speak up before talking,” Richard said slowly before taking a sip of coffee, ignoring the wince on Ollie’s face at his words. “Besides, my door is always open to Till.”

Something that suspiciously sounded like _‘Sure it is’_ came from Paul’s direction, but Till wouldn’t have bet on it, muffled as it was by the sound of food being eaten. He looked at Schneider, then at Ollie, who shrugged a little, staring at Richard with a frown on his face, before shrugging as well.

“Works for me,” he said quietly to Richard.

The guitarist nodded before turning his attention back onto his breakfast. Till watched him do with a feeling of sadness, wondering when Richard had become so closed off exactly. He had been so enthusiastic at the idea of recording their new album, when they had talked on the phone over the summer and the first weeks of fall, but now that that it was becoming a reality, enthusiasm seemed to have turn into sadness.

Shaking his head a little, he focused on the conversation, eyeing his breakfast with disinterested eyes.

“– funny how boilers always break down in the middle of winter,” Ollie was saying, bacon dangling from his fork. “Do you remember, winter ’93?”

“A real nightmare,” Schneider grumbled before a chuckle escaped him. “We spent so much time in your bedroom because it was the only one that wasn’t _cold_ , you slept in the living room afterwards.”

“I couldn’t stand it anymore, with that greenish paint on the wall,” Ollie said with a little laugh, and Till let himself drift away from the conversation, mindlessly poking at his breakfast.

Two nights sleeping in the same bed – he could do it. He had done so before, to none the wiser, and there were no reasons for it to end badly this time.

As trouble never came alone, a storm broke down around lunch time and the temperature dropped alongside, making them regret more or less loudly than the boiler couldn’t be fix anytime sooner. It was complicated to focus on recording new songs when the perspective of sleeping in cold rooms without the comfort of a hot shower was in everybody’s mind, and they called for the day to end rather earlier than usual. The huge chimney standing in the middle of the living room proved itself to be quite tempting, but setting up mattresses in front of it would require more furniture moves than any of them felt comfortable with (including a teak china cabinet that Till wasn’t sure could be _moved_ ). The fireplace was still useful to warm the living era, where they spent the rest of the afternoon and then the evening, and even to heat enough water that they could all clean up with something warmer than the icy water coming from the pipes. Ollie had managed to dig up a plastic bucket they could use, and half of them had already used it to freshen up a little before dinner.

The situation reminded Till of a time long gone, putting him in a nostalgic mood – and he wasn’t the only one, considering the exchange of anecdotes that took place over dinner. Paul was a wonderful narrator, lively and quite funny, with Flake interjecting dry comments that sent him howling with laughter. Ollie wasn’t much better and almost fell from his chair because he was laughing too hard, tears running down his cheeks, almost breathless, leaving to Schneider the opportunity of bringing back to life a few anecdotes of their own.

Even Richard smiled at those, reminding Till even more sharply of the numerous times the guitarist had crashed on his couch during the winter of 93-94, begging for a warm place to sleep every couple of days – and a warm shower to go with. He hadn’t wanted to intrude too much then, focused as he was on getting Till to sing for his – then – new band, but Till would be lying in the particular circumstances hadn’t played a hand in convincing him to join them, hesitant as he had been over his singing capacities.

Richard could be _very_ persuasive when he put his mind to it.

Till withdrew from the conversation at some point, intent on writing a little before heading to bed. He wasn’t very satisfied with the lyrics he had written for their song about the Armin Meiwes case, and even though the final draft had finally obtained the go-ahead from Paul for the rest of them to tweak the music around it, he still wanted to keep working on it. There was something about the third verse that didn’t sound correct to him, and he meant to rewrite it at least a little before sleeping.

Surprisingly enough, Richard was the first to leave, claiming he needed to rearrange his bedroom before sleeping. Till eyed him suspiciously at that, knowing rather well that chaos was seldom present in Richard’s room – not in their recording houses, in any case – but he didn’t comment on it, letting Paul rib him a little as the guitarist made his way through the stairs. Ollie and Schneider followed at some point, under giggles and lewd comments that brought a deep blush to the bassist’s face, bringing more laughter in its wake. The teasing accompanied them until they disappeared in the corridor of the floor upstairs, before Paul finally turned his attention onto Flake. The atmosphere grew more cozy then, and Till finally found the words he had been searching for, writing fervently into his notebook, Flake humming the melody on the couch in front of him while Paul was falling asleep over him, using him as a human pillow.

It was only once he was done that he raised his eys again, staring at the domestic picture in front of him. He watched Flake and Paul for a moment, noticing the shared intimacy between them and felt longing twisting his guts. Two decades they had known each other, playing in the same bands living together, sharing each other’s life and he was _envious_ of it, envious of how comfortable they were with one another. Till shook his head a little as yearning made itself more acidic in his veins and wished them a good night before slowly making his way upstairs, a wistful expression on his face. He carefully put away his notebook before making a short trip to the bathroom grumbling at the plastic bucket half-filled with lukewarm water in the corner of the shower. He went back on the mezzanine to grab his pillow, quickly checking on the living room downstairs, realizing that Flake and Paul were waiting for the fire to die out before going to bed, and then made his way to Richard’s bedroom.

The lamp on the nightstand was turned on, giving a warm, cozy atmosphere to the room – or maybe it was just his mind playing tricks on him, yearning making him see things that weren’t there. Richard was curled up under the blankets, back turned on the door – and the light – his hair standing out against the white pillows, and Till smiled at the familiar sight. He had taken the farthest side of the bed and Till was quick to arrange his pillow before settling under the blankets and turning the light off. He shivered a little, the coldness of the air brutally reminding itself to him, and he was glad they had all decided to bunk off together. It took a few minutes for his eyes to get used to the darkness of the room and start recognizing the shapes of the furniture – here the door, the wardrobe next to it, the desk on the other side, the faint outline of the heavy curtains in front of the window…

He could faintly guess the lines of the guitarist sleeping next to him, knowing that he could touch a firm back if he decided to reach out. The bed was big enough that there was still some space between them, and Till hesitated for a few seconds, tempted to move closer before remaining where he was, a bit saddened at the distance between them.

 _So much for taking advantage of the situation to find out what the problem was_ , he thought with a twinge of sadness before closing his eyes.

Richard was snoring softly next to him, a small, slightly wheezing sound that started lulling him to sleep with its familiarity, guiding him to sleep before he could even realize it.

The sound of someone walking on the wooden floor, a plate creaking right in front of the bedroom’s door, woke him up the morning after. He heard soft footsteps padding away, the creaking of the stairs as someone went down to the kitchen and then the faint, already familiar noise of water being set to boil for the coffee machine. He blearily opened one eye and then the other, a bit surprised to find himself in a closed room before remembering his new sleeping arrangement. Shuffling a little under the blankets, he frowned as cold air hit his face and then moved until the tip of his nose was covered, movements made slow by sleepiness. The bleak, dim light of the morning was tentatively peering through the curtains and he held back a little groan before moving until he was lying on his right side.

A mass of black hair was barely poking from under the blankets and he smiled a little at the sight, bad mood suddenly gone. Richard had turned around during the night and, although still curled on himself, was now facing him, one hand hidden under his pillow while the other was lying on the mattress, between their bodies, slightly folded. He made a tiny sound of complaint as cold hair hit his face, the blankets rising up while Till was settling more comfortably, and curled on himself a little tighter.

There was a slight frown on his face, even in his sleep, and Till felt his smile disappear when he noticed it. He took hold of the blankets and drew them higher on the bed, making sure Richard was entirely covered, half paying attention to the growing noise in the kitchen. The guitarist was bound to wake up at any given moment now, eyelids fluttering slightly, and he wished he could freeze the moment in time, at least until he had had his fill of gazing at Richard.

His fingers itched with the desire to draw the line of his nose, and he had to force himself to curl his hand in a fist rather than stroke Richard’s cheek, wondering how stubble might feel under his lips.

Richard opened his eyes, blinked a few times and then stared at him, a bleary look in his eyes that soon turned into recognition. He yawned loudly before curling a little tighter on himself, one hand moving to grab the blanket.

“It’s cold,” he mumbled, squinting his nose.

Till nodded.

Richard yawned again and then tilted his head to the side, attention attracted by the noise downstairs.

“Somebody’s making breakfast,” he said slowly, still not looking quite awake.

Till hummed a little.

Richard grumbled a little before rolling on his back, rubbing his eyes, black hair spread out against a white pillow. Till watched him do in silence, drinking in the small details of the morning, for once not ignoring the pang in his heart at the sight. A half-asleep Richard, warm and pliant, early in the morning was someone he wanted to keep under the blankets and never let go of, but he had no right to that.

Silence stretched between them and Till kept looking at Richard without saying a word. It was only because he was so focused on him that he noticed the unhappy twinge of his lips, mouth barely opening before closing down on words that might have gotten out otherwise. Something was upsetting him – no, scratch that, was _eating_ at him, and Till didn’t know what to do.

He hesitated a moment too long and lost his opportunity as Richard sat down, blankets falling from his body. The guitarist let go a stream of curse at the cold air of the room hit him before moving across the bed to grab his sweatshirt, muttering under his breath, obviously unhappy at the situation.

“I’m going to get some coffee,” he said in a grumble before leaving the room, Till watching him go with a quickly growing sense of unease.

Richard had never been the kind of wake up on the good side of the bed, but he clearly couldn’t blame his bad mood on the cold temperature of the room and the predicament they were currently in. No, there was something else – but he wasn’t awake enough to scratch at it first thing in the morning.

Still, the idea of coffee was rather appealing, especially now that he was alone in bed, and he moved out with a shrug, cursing as well as he lost the protection of the blankets before putting his hands on his sweatshirt. The wooden floor creaked under his feet, and he was hit with cold air as he made his way downstairs, looking unhappily at the extinguished embers in the fireplace. He would have to take care of that as soon as he was done with breakfast, otherwise, they wouldn’t make it through the day.

They had grown softer, now that they were used to all the comforts of modern technologies.

Richard’s bed-hair was the first thing he noticed when he walked in the kitchen, and it looked even more spectacular under the neon lights. Half of his face was covered in pillow creases and Till had to stop himself from chuckling at the sight, knowing his amusement wouldn’t be taken in a good-natured way. Ollie, on the other hand, looked in a particular good mood that morning, whistling as he was preparing breakfast, his tone particularly cheerful as he greeted Till. His sweatshirt was one size too big and Till spotted two hickeys on his collarbone as he sat down, an amused smile stretching his lips at the sight.

Well, at least the night had been _pleasurable_ for someone.

His eyes met Richard’s across the table and he saw something flickering in the guitarist’s gaze before he looked away, the tip of his ears turning pink.

_Uh._

He was a bit disconcerted at the unexpected reaction but it was soon pushed away from his mind as the rest of the band joined them in the kitchen, yawning loudly and complaining about the temperature of the house before reaching for breakfast.

The cold seeping through the day wasn’t even the worst part – no, it was the _humidity_ that followed, with the house being close to the ocean, and it hadn’t been a problem until then, but now, with no hot water and no heating system to speak of, tempers were already running short at the end of the second day. Till’s new lyrics for the Armin Meiwes case had gotten his bandmates’ approval, but they brought up a change in the musical structure of the song that led to an hour of heated discussions. Ollie ended up mediating a lengthy session of bickering between the guitarists, rolling his eyes all the way through the arguments. Schneider and Flake withdrew to the kitchen, more interested in preparing dinner while Till made sure the fire wasn’t dying in the chimney.

Dinner was a quiet affair, with two sulking guitarists decided not to speak to each other until they had both cooled down – a sensible attitude everyone else approved of – and a very ruffled Ollie who stabbed his meal a bit too forcefully until Flake managed to distract him by bringing up the latest Winter Olympic Games, and the performance of the German teams.

The topic was benign enough that the atmosphere finally relaxed over dessert and while washing the dishes. Their post-meal conversation followed suit, especially as Richard left early in the evening, claiming he wanted to work on his compositions a little. It was obvious to Till that Paul relaxed visibly at his departure, eyes squinting a little as Schneider muttered something that brought Ollie to kick him in the leg – and with some strength, if the drummer’s grimace was anything to go by. Till felt his shoulders sag a little at their reactions, eyes following Richard’s form up the stairs and into the darkness of the corridor with a forlorn expression, but didn’t say anything. He focused his attention on the fireplace again, missing the guilty look on Paul’s face before joining the conversation again, slightly concerned by the dynamics at hand.

Obviously they were all doing their best to avoid repeating the disaster that had been _Mutter_ ’s recording, but he couldn’t deny that there were still tensions brewing, and he wasn’t quite sure what to do about it. He still remembered the scathing accusation thrown at his face when he had kept taking Richard’s side, despite knowing that his controlling tendencies were at the crux of the problem – but he couldn’t _not_ have sided with him, fully aware that cocaine had played a big part in his behavior. He only hoped the same problems weren’t happening again – Richard was trying not to direct everything, he could see it, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t butt heads with Paul, who wasn’t doing much to ease the ruthlessness of his critics.

The issue bothered him enough that he ended up completely losing track of the conversation before Flake nudged him gently, understanding clear in his eyes. They held a silent conversation before Till slowly rose up and bode everyone else a good night, squeezing Flake’s shoulder before leaving the living room. His passage in the bathroom was even quicker than the day before, grumbling and shivering a little as he emptied the bucket filled to two-thirds with warm water. He couldn’t wait for the day the heater would be fixed – a hot shower looked like pure paradise right now, and he regretted the lack of clear stream in the vegetation surrounding the house. Bathing in a lake or in a waterfall with a fire burning right next to it was a lot more appealing than having to clean up from a bucket for sure. He dropped the empty bucket on top of the stairs, knowing whoever wanted to clean up before going to bed would come and get it, before moving along.

He was shivering as he made his way to Richard’s bedroom, hesitating in front of the ajar door for a moment. He could hear the conversation downstairs, Paul’s laugh clear amid the crackling of the logs in the fireplace, but there was no sound coming from the bedroom. Taking a deep breath, he knocked on the door before peering inside, a bit unsure of what to do.

The lamp on the nightstand was turned off this time and he blinked, waiting a few seconds for his eyes to get used to the darkness in the room. The curtains were only half-closed, pale moonlight forming a line of light on the floor and at the foot of the bed before finishing its course on the opposite wall. Frowning a little, Till entered the room before quietly closing the door behind him. He lingered for a few seconds before realizing Richard was curled up on the side of the bed closest to the nightstand. He seemed to have aimed for an exchange of positions and Till rolled with it, taking off his sweatshirt and dropping it on the chair before darting under the covers.

The bed’s structure squeaked a little as he settled and he willed himself to relax, patting the blankets until they were positioned just so over him. A soft sigh escaped him and he closed his eyes, trying to force himself to fall asleep before letting out a yelp as two cold feet brushed against his leg.

“Sorry,” Richard mumbled, face peeking up from under the blankets, hair already in disarray.

“You’re _cold_ ,” Till blurted, still taken aback by the freezing sensation of ice cubs against his leg, despite his sweatpants acting as a barrier. “Come here,” he added almost immediately, motioning for Richard to move closer.

The guitarist hesitated, nibbling on his lower lip before shifting towards Till until he was curled up against the singer, legs tentatively brushing together. Frowning a little, Till held him by the waist, waiting until Richard settled against him, forehead against his shoulder, hands curled together between their bodies.

“Are you getting sick?” Till asked curiously after a moment of silence, turning his head to the side so that Richard’s hair was brushing against his nose as he spoke.

Richard made a little noise of disagreement before shaking his head.

“I don’t think so,” he said quietly, “why?”

Till hesitated for a few seconds before deciding to speak up.

“You’ve been oddly quiet since a couple of days,” he said in the same tone, fingers drifting across Richard’s shoulder blades, half wishing he wasn’t wearing a shirt. “And you’re _really_ cold, too.”

“It _is_ cold,” Richard pointed out before shifting a little closer, voice half muffled by the pillow.

Till hummed but didn’t say anything, noticing with satisfaction that Richard was starting to relax under his touch. Maybe he would get answers now – if only he could get the guitarist to voice what was bothering him…

“And I’m tired,” Richard went on, voice quieter, still muffled.

Till was starting to suspect he was intentionally speaking on his shirt, but didn’t comment on it, still drawing circles over the guitarist’s shoulder blades. It was true dark bags had appeared under Richard’s eyes in the past couple of days, but nothing that should warrant such a reaction to the cold temperature… unless his fatigue wasn’t only physical.

He had to tread carefully there.

“Recording an album didn’t use to tire you that much,” Till finally said after a time, cautiously picking his words.

Richard hummed a little, a small sound to confirm he had heard him, but remained silent for a moment. Till let him be, half-listening to the noise of the conversation downstairs, thoughts running in circles until he felt a hand tentatively holding onto his shirt.

“It’s complicated,” Richard finally said, Till nodding over, errand strands of hair brushing his nose.

He paused again and Till waited.

“I try to give space to the others, you know?” he mumbled, raising his head a little to look at Till in the dim moonlight of the room. “But it seems to never be enough, for Paul and Schneider. As if I keep trying to direct them when we compose the new songs.”

“Did they say so?” Till asked slowly, hand resting lightly on top of Richard’s shoulder blades.

The guitarist didn’t react for a beat before shaking his head.

“They don’t need to, I can understand the subtext just fine.”

His words were quiet but still boomed loudly in the room. Frowning a little, Till stared at the guitarist, conscious of the way he had tensed against him, eyes a stormy sea he couldn’t decipher.

“You might also be seeing antagonism where it doesn’t exist,” Till finally said, ever so cautious.

Richard high on cocaine was as easily spooked as a wild, hurt animal, but this Richard – clean, hurting and apparently doubting his place in the band – was brittle as well, and needed reassurance.

Words of comfort he would accept, which was always a tricky matter.

Richard grumbled, stirring to get away before plopping back down against Till, an unhappy expression on his face. The singer felt his heart tighten a little at the sight and tentatively moved his hand away from Richard’s shoulder blades to the back of his neck, fingers grazing at the sensitive skin there. Two inquisitive eyes stared at him and he focused on the hand lying on top of his sweatshirt, trying to find the right words.

“Do you want to call a band meeting to talk about it?” Till finally asked, thinking it would probably best to have the problem out in the open, rather than let it fester any further.

Richard hesitated before shrugging a little and resting his head against his shoulder. If Till felt inclined to tilt his head to the side, he would have the perfect pillow to rest upon, but there were more important matters to deal with first.

“Do you want me to talk about it with Paul and Schneider?”

Silence.

Till waited for a moment, fingers still playing with the soft, almost silky hair at the base of Richard’s head, before the guitarist sighed loudly.

“No,” he finally said in a somber, almost miserable tone. “I can’t ask you to fight my battles for me.”

“The band is not a battlefield,” Till corrected immediately, before amending his words. “It’s not supposed to be one.”

Richard sighed again before curling a little tighter against him. It was obvious the situation had been bothering him for some time now, and Till was glad he was finally speaking up about the matter. He only regretted that Richard hadn’t felt comfortable to raise the issue with him beforehand, but tried to ignore it – at least it was done, now.

“Ollie was pretty pissed off,” Richard added after a time, still not looking at him, voice low and a bit sad.

“Earlier today? I saw,” Till commented once it was clear the guitarist needed to be nudged a little.

For someone who was so talkative in every day’s life, it could be quite difficult to get him to speak up on the issues that really bothered him – but Till was nothing if not patient, and had the whole night in front of him.

“Mmh,” Richard said in return before relaxing a little as Till’s fingers moved higher on his scalp. “He doesn’t really like playing mediator when we’re arguing.”

He frowned a little.

“He had a very precise idea on what to do with our guitar strings if we didn’t come to an arrangement.”

Till snorted at that, imagining all too well the kind of imaginative threat the bassist might have come up with – Ollie had a wicked streak a mile long, when he put his mind to it.

Richard sighed again before closing his eyes.

“Maybe we should have that band meeting,” he finally said, and Till bent down to kiss the top of his head before being able to stop himself.

They both stilled at the gesture before Till leaned against his pillow once more, feeling his heart beating erratically in his ribcage.

He had messed up. It had been intimate, in the spur of the moment, _too_ intimate, nothing that was supposed to take place between friends, even friends as tactile as they were…

Richard would figure it out – there was no possibility he would _not_ , and he wouldn’t be _mean_ about it, of course not, but still, he didn’t want to be let down –

“Calm down,” Richard grumbled, head still on his shoulder, hand still holding onto his shirt.

“I’m calm,” Till said in return, voice sounding strangled to his ears.

“I can feel your heart beating,” Richard said, voice utterly calm, showing no desire to move away from him. “Like a bird who wants to break free from its cage.”

Till swallowed loudly at that, unable to make a joke out of it, words turning into ashes on the tip of his tongue. He felt more than he heard Richard sighing against his shirt, the sound half muffled, and blinked a few times, trying to get himself under control.

It had been ridiculous of him to react like that – him being a tad too affectionate could have easily been explained by the fact that he hated seeing Richard upset, but now that he had panicked, he could hardly go back in time and change his reaction…

“I guess birds are still singing, then,” Richard mumbled once it was clear Till wouldn’t speak.

Till frowned.

_“What?”_

The word had come out of its own volition, but he had been too surprised by the sudden change of topic to stop himself from reacting.

Richard nodded against his shoulder, a little hum of acquiescence escaping him.

“The song,” he pointed out before half-singing the lyrics, Till remaining utterly still against him. “You wrote a lot of love songs for the album. Sad songs, too.”

“My love songs are never happy,” Till finally said, trying to find a way to steer away the conversation from that particular topic.

He wasn’t going to get out of that one, was he?

“I know,” Richard said in a small voice before raising his head to look at him.

He forced himself not to blush, grateful for the dim moonlight that was hiding most of his face, making it easier for him to ignore the focus in Richard’s eyes.

He looked briefly at the window, barely noticing that he couldn’t heard the conversation downstairs anymore.

“Love doesn’t last,” he finally said, almost surprised at his own words. “People leave. And you’re left alone.”

Richard made a strange noise, almost strangled, and he forced himself to look at him, trying to decipher the expression on his face.

“That’s the song,” Till concluded lamely, wondering where all his eloquence had gone.

 _Eloquence_. He was only eloquent when he was in front of his notebook, alone with a pen and his thoughts, free to sculpt his words until they reached the state of perfection he was aiming, until feelings could stand on their own and be released into the wild.

Here, with Richard curled against him, talking – _asking_ about his songs, about love… he felt like a deer caught in headlights, mind frozen, words gone in a blizzard.

Dust was dancing in the air, fine particles standing out in the dim moonlight over the blankets and their legs intertwined. It reminded him of glass sculptures he had seen as a child, somehow, for no reason at all, and his hold on Richard tightened a little, unconsciously.

They were swimming in deep waters, and he didn’t know whether they would reach the shore or not.

“Love is a wild animal that everyone wants to tame,” Richard said in a low voice after silence had stretched between them, still looking at him, something akin to stars dancing in his eyes.

Till nodded before looking away, unable to hold his gaze any longer. Why had Richard paid such attention to the lyrics he had written? Why did he have to quote them back to him while they were lying in bed together, under the pale moonlight?

He felt a pang of disappointment as the guitarist sighed a little before shifting away, head lying on his shoulder again. His fingers were still cupping the neck and the back of Richard’s head, and he wasn’t sure what to do with himself – move his hand away? pretend everything was normal and keep petting the silky hair?

“Do you think I’m a wild animal, too?” Richard asked in a very small voice, so soft Till wasn’t sure he had heard him at first.

He turned his head to look at him, suddenly wishing that the guitarist was still staring at him instead of looking at the half-open curtains, a crease between his eyebrows. This wasn’t the real question – of course it wasn’t – and it was up to him to be truthful.

Richard would follow his lead, he suddenly realized. He could lie, and Richard wouldn’t push, would keep leaning against him every time the opportunity for comfort was opened, but he wouldn’t seek it of his own volition, trying to maintain the fragile equilibrium between them – all six of them – as it were.

“You’re my little fox,” Till finally said, trying to keep his voice even, especially as Richard raised his head to look at him again, eyes shining brightly in the moonlight. “Always have been.”

There it was – his secret; out in the open.

Richard tilted his head to the side, looking at him with such an intense gaze that he felt like squirming, wondering if his soul had been laid out, bare for all to see. Neither of them said anything, just watched each other in silence until Richard hummed a little, moving until he was leaning against his forearm, his other hand still resting over Till’s heart.

“I’m not going anywhere, you know,” he said quietly, eyes burning into Till’s soul. “Even if I live an ocean away. I’m still here.”

Till wondered if he had pressed on his heart on purpose, or if it was only for a question of balance – but the question soon left his mind as Richard leaned closer to him, the tip of their noses touching. Time paused for a moment, Till felt like his heart was going to burst out of his ribcage, he absent-mindedly licked his lips, and Richard kissed him.

It was just a touch of the lips – warm, they were warm, although a bit chaffed – but he tensed, not quite believing what was happening. Richard moved back slightly, looking distressed at his reaction, but Till held him in place, one hand still cupping his neck, before kissing him, feeling as shy and hesitant as a teenager receiving his first kiss.

The second attempt was as tentative as the first, lips slowly brushing together, soft as a feather, until Richard shyly opened his mouth, barely enough to make a difference before deepening the kiss a little. Encouraged by his reaction, Till moved his other hand to kiss his check, stubble grazing against his palm as they kept kissing, slow and hesitant. It felt good, too good, chaste as it was, and he never wanted it to end, a sharp intake of breath escaping him as they finally separated to catch their breath.

Richard’s cheeks were flushed a deep red in the moonlight and he smiled a little at the sight, pleased more than he could say. Blood was buzzing in his ears and he wasn’t sure what to do, watching as Richard took a deep breath and closed his eyes, head leaning into his hand, eyelashes fluttering against his skin.

“I have you,” Till said in a dreamy voice, fingers drifting against the sensitive skin of Richard’s neck, feeling him gulp, almost _touching_ his erratic heartbeat.

“You do,” Richard said in a low voice, eyes fluttering open, a vulnerable expression on his face. “You do,” he repeated before moving to kiss Till again, shivering a little under his hands.

They kept kissing, slowly, getting acquainted with each other’s bodies in a brand-new way until they felt themselves falling prey to Morpheus, holding onto each other, bodies curled together as they fell asleep.

The morning after found them entwined together, Richard’s nose nuzzling in the crook of his neck, both hands holding tightly onto his shirt, and Till smiled at the sight, something that had been there for a long time uncurling at the bottom of his stomach. He pulled the blankets higher over their heads, kissed Richard’s temple and let himself being lulled back to sleep, a melody rising in his head.

_Amour Amour_

_Alle wollen nur dich zähmen_

_Amour Amour am Ende_

_Gefangen zwischen deinen Zähnen_

**Author's Note:**

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